


Till The Sun Breaks Down

by SilviaKundera



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M, Natural Disasters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-14
Updated: 2003-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-12 19:26:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilviaKundera/pseuds/SilviaKundera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Chris & Justin Earthquake Fic. <i>it's the big one, all right</i>.<br/>[Written circa 2003, prior to band break up]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till The Sun Breaks Down

**i. tremor**

It should take a good five minutes to travel from the slick limo seats to the studio door. They're not supposed to keep Regis waiting.

Justin decides to make it ten.

Chris steps out first, the soles of his shoes clacking sharply against the asphalt. Justin follows, after a brief pause, and shuts the door. He doesn't look up because he doesn't have to - he knows Lonnie will be waiting at the entrance, and he can feel Chris' elbow bumping a bruise into his arm, as Chris signs his name over and over again. _Strike. Bend. Release._ Justin moves out of range, and pulls a pen from his pocket in two fluid strokes. Sometimes he spins it between his fingers, to make the girl giggle, and smiles. But not today.

The sun is slanted in just the right direction to sneak up Justin's downcast eyes. He scrunches his lids and wrinkles his nose and reminds himself that they'll only be in Los Angeles until tomorrow - not even a visit that _matters_ , just him and Chris, just this here and then the next morning for TRL.

It's better than at the hotel, in the single room that they had booked three months before, and forgotten to change. Justin bakes in thick air, signs, and waits for the discomfort of his pretend house and gaudy not-him furniture. Rented rooms and buzzing sets are too much like home, and he thinks he shouldn't feel right. _After_ isn't supposed to feel good.

Chris' clenched back and eerie quiet tell him this.

Justin's dreaming of scratchy bed sets and too large cereal bowls, as his hand swoops down the assembly line, when a faint rasping creak shoots straight into his ears and expands into a rumbling grind. Then a jerky vibration pierces the small of his back, and at first it's too loud to hear _anything_. He wants to close his eyes, but it hurts; and there's nothing he can do for his ears, anyway. The world is an ocean, suddenly, and the waves are rolling back. He can't breathe, can't breathe. Doesn't want to drown.

Justin thinks he hears the sidewalk screaming beneath his feet.

And then he's on his back.

* * *

 

 **ii. dust**

A yellowish gray haze.

Justin doesn't like the cracked ground biting into his spine, but he looks first to the left -- for Chris. Because some things never change. No matter how many times you say they will.

Chris is already standing.

Justin pulls himself up, and waits. He lets Chris come to him, because he's not ready to look yet. He thinks maybe he should close his eyes; except the crying is worse, and he can't turn that off, so there really isn't a point.

Chris' hands clutch at his sleeves, and it would be so easy to curl into his neck and not be there, not have to hear the crackle of live wires or breathe in air that he can't smell - strangely - but _knows_ to have the metallic tinge of blood. He could breathe soft skin and familiar sweat instead.

"Don't," Justin says, and uses his fingertips to push Chris an arm's length away.

**

It's maybe seven minutes, and ground is rushing up to meet him once again.

Justin ducks, and skids, and reaches out to barely latch a hand around Chris' wrist and pull. A slab of concrete rolls over to take his place. Justin doesn't blink - just keeps moving - and listens to that thick rumble that he felt the first time, embedded in his bones.

When the surroundings still once again, Justin stays tensed. He's poised for action - eyes darting _up. down. left. right._ \- and forcing clean measured breaths.

Chris tells him to, "Calm the fuck down", and perches on the edge of a distorted curb.

It's only aftershocks now, and Justin knows this, but sometimes a little is too much. And there are already so many cracks.

But he tries.

He tries not to dart back and forth during the next one, eyes scanning upwards like maybe the sky will start falling. Justin manages to expect the quake, somehow, and confines himself to a rough jerk and widened eyes. He's vaguely aware that it's heightened some of the crying, rising the din to a sharp peak, but doesn't look for the source.

With the third one, Justin isn't sure that he can actually feel the ground move at all.

He exhales slow and long, like he could go on forever, and studies the cracks in the pavement as they jump and twitch.

He doesn't even notice the sun anymore.

**

"We can't stay here."

Chris is beating a thumb and forefinger lightly against his thigh _rap tap tap_ , and looking outwards, down past the crumbled limo that Justin's pretending not to see. Justin follows his gaze, eyes bouncing over rubble and chunky mud. He thinks it could be still called a street - just barely. Maybe a path.

It's a place to go.

* * *

 

 **iii. settle**

The first night they don't stop, and tread diligently towards what looks like south - though the damage seems to be compounding, deepening, and maybe they've been heading the wrong way.

Chris says it's too late to turn back now.

It's only a matter of time, though, because they've supposed that there were three triggered faults, and that's bad, and that means no one's coming - no one can get through - and fuck the water supply, and every man for himself. But it could be worse. And eventually they'll get somewhere.

Even in the dark it's nearly deafening - with foundations shifting, buildings finally cracking too hard, indecipherable shouts, the hiss of broken gas lines, and the sizzle of shorted bulbs. It fools him into thinking he can see.

**

It's maybe half-way to dawn when their ears are hit by a harsh crackle and a muffled yelp, a couple feet to the right.

A boy's sobbing in a strangled whine, and Justin thinks the second sound was a dog, because the boy can't seen to find any words other than, " _the smell. smell._ "

And Justin remembers the house down the street that he could see in funhouse-proportioned clarity when he climbed onto the roof of his dad's shed. There was a fire there once - before they moved in - and the big kids liked to linger outside the gate, pressing cheeks eagerly between cold metal bars.

They said there were ghosts, and Justin's momma said they were liars. But all Justin could sense was the sharp bitter too-warm smell that blanketed the side of the house's lawn. One of the kids who usually knew, said there used to be a doghouse there. Before.

Justin always held his breath when passing by, afraid the scent would scorch his nose and stay curled permanently inside. He didn't believe the others when they said they couldn't smell anything.

**

The boy's throat is growing hoarse, but he won't stop screaming.

"Should we..." Justin doesn't glance back, knows Chris is shaking his head. Expects the soft touch before the fingers settle between his shoulder blades.

"Come on."

**

They don't walk at night anymore.

 

* * *

 

 **iv. there**

The streets aren't really that much worse than some parts of Germany, if Justin discounts the smoke rising up in a long black cloud from that hill over on the left. The pavement's crumbling, but not so bad that it's unusable. Justin finds it almost soothing, actually, the way that his body bumps up and down with every step. It's like being rocked to sleep in a giant cradle.

And there's the fact that Germany reminds him of Chris. And Chris is right beside him.

So he thinks that maybe he'll spot every good sized pebble within kicking distance, and make a run for it, and whack it just forward enough. They used to do that for hours when wandering down roads with weird unpronounceable names, after Justin's mom had turned in and he'd snuck limberly out the window and onto the fire escape and down to the bottom floor.

The ground is surprisingly steady under his feet, and Justin gets some good momentum in, but it doesn't seem to work quite right all of a sudden. He misses every time.

Just plain walking is better, probably.

**

"We should get something to eat."

Justin's voice sounds suffocated in cotton - alien to his own ears - and he's reminded why he hasn't been talking.

"We will."

Chris' voice is kind of choked and funny too.

**

They stop, finally, in front of some thing that looks like it could once have been a _Ralphs_.

The air inside is flecked with gray - particles that dance within a beam of light that's sneaking through a shattered window and onto the floor. The floor is that weird kind of non-tile like tile that grocery stores tend to have, and it doesn't make a sound under their feet, though Justin wishes it would - much too quiet in there.

They're looking for cans, a water bottle hidden under a low shelf, a couple of candy bars stuck between check out counters.

They find nothing.

Every inch has been picked clean - flimsy metal aisle dividers tipped over onto their sides and empty bags and containers tossed onto the floor to collect maggots and dust.

A beam creaks overhead, and Justin shifts uneasily. He looks down when he feels Chris' fingers stroke lightly against the back of his hand.

"Next one?" It's kind of a question, kind of not. He knows they can't stay there.

Chris laces their fingers and waits for Justin's head to turn. "Next one." He tilts his chin up just enough to look Justin in the eyes.

* * *

 

 **v. beneath**

If Justin had time to sleep, he might dream of this:

>  _Hot sticky breath slipping over the curve of his neck. Slick flesh pressing onto his back, rocking. Nails biting into his hips, and the rough pad of a thumb, on either side, bruising a small oval of skin._
> 
>  _A rough twist of Chris' hips rips out a gasp from Justin's lungs, and he could use that as an excuse, later, for remaining silent when Chris chokes out, "Love you", and hisses crisply in his ear. Justin could. But he doesn't._
> 
>  _And then it never happens again. And Chris never asks for reasons, so Justin doesn't even try._
> 
>  _There may not be a reason, actually. Just re **actions**. Just being who they are._
> 
>  _One night vodka sounds like a good idea, and it probably is, but Justin drinks too much of it. And then he's drowning, and clawing at the walls, and sick enough to call Chris and whimper high and desperate into the phone. Chris is lost for a moment, still picking himself out of sleep, but finds him finally. And says it'll be okay._
> 
>  _Justin has to concentrate so so hard to make out Chris' words. And then half forgets them, because the only way to make his stomach sit still is to pass out right there, on the couch._
> 
>  _And Justin doesn't even know what he's mumbling, in those last moments of consciousness, when he presses his lips into the receiver. "I think we just don't have any love left, man. I fucking don't. We give it all away."_
> 
>  _But Chris must be listening, because he answers._
> 
>  _"If you say so," Chris says._

When everything you have is light and dry and never-ending movement, all you can dream are memories.

They keep you weighted down.

* * *

 

 **vi. try to**

A small band of boys vault out of a two-story window, one by one, and Justin jumps each time that their feet hit the ground running with a crack.

Skinny legs stumble and bend all wrong, stirring up a circle of dust. "Fuck! My-"

The head boy turns, and laughs sharply, and shouts, "Run it _off_!" There's a wince, but the leg forces itself straight again, and all six head North-East in a jog.

Justin watches their backs until they could be a mirage - wavering golden smudges on the horizon.

He waits until night to ask.

"Do you think they know, like, that we're-- here?"

Chris arches his throat to stare at the sky. "What, LA? Yeah -- they knew the schedule."

"but. I mean." Justin tastes the words on his tongue before he speaks. "They know we're okay, right?" He tries to look up too, but the stars hurt his eyes. "Do you think-- I don't want JC to cry. I hate that."

"I know." Chris brushes rough index fingers over his eyelids, coaxing them to close.

**

Justin doesn't flinch at the sight of crowds anymore; no one's looking at him, for him, anyway. They're just huddling on the sides of the road, usually, and building fire pits with jagged rocks. They slap boards together to keep the sun off, and pray that nothing more will come tumbling down.

Sometimes Justin thinks his hands should be rubbed raw like theirs are, but then he remembers that he only has his own body and Chris' to look after. And Chris can pretty much take care of himself.

Sometimes they make him want to stop - with their soft whimpers and their panicked scrambling. Sometimes something inside tries to whisper about obligations. And that something is dangerous, he knows, because they won't be thankful. They'll bite. He's seen it.

Justin shoves coldness into his chest, and pans the sea of dirty elbows and tattered blue jeans with disinterested eyes.

A little girl wants her mommy, but Justin doesn't _have_ her mommy. So they walk on by.

* * *

 

 **vii. silence**

Justin finds that it helps a lot to not look at Chris. He watches sunlight filter the dust that still hangs thick in the air, and tries to convince himself that he could do this alone. He doesn't want to need Chris, because then Chris has a reason to be there. And Justin's not like that, not how they say. He'd never--

"I'm sorry it was you, here." Justin scratches the back of his head to give his hands something to do, and waits for things to be okay. He kind of hopes that Chris will smile and say, "I know," again. That always makes his stomach ripples smooth over and turn warm.

Chris doesn't smile. "So who would you pick?"

All of a sudden they've stopped, and Chris' fingers have turned into white knuckle fists, but he hasn't turned around -- not yet -- and Justin's tongue isn't really working anymore.

"What I -- I don't."

"Who would you **pick** , Justin?"

Chris' words are frozen bullets, and they seep ice into Justin's chest. He doesn't understand why Chris doesn't understand.

"Look-- I. I'm just trying to say that--"

"You're not saying anything. So how about you just shut the fuck up?"

Justin can do that.

* * *

 

 **viii. because he**

It's funny how they never talked much, since it happened, but now that Justin _can't_ , now that talking is _wrong_ , it's all he wants to do. He's bombarded with the strangest urges to babble about the weather, or the woman they passed two hours ago, or the hole in his shirt that he's just positive will shred the whole damn thing if they give it enough walking and enough time.

So Justin tries to focus instead, and decides to figure out how long it's been since the world came crashing down.

Except, no. Because the days, nights, and roads seem to be blending and overlapping into each other. And then Chris keeps looking at him all the fucking time now, and all wrong.

It's not the looking that he was doing before: both of their heads snapping up at the crack of a gunshot, a long steady slide of eyes up Justin's spine when it tenses, holding Justin's gaze before they walk through a door. These are sharp jerky glances, at almost random intervals - eyes flicking over to burn into the side of Justin's neck. He's not sure if Chris means for him to notice. He doesn't even know if Chris is aware of them himself.

But it just seems like maybe Justin should finally say something. So he does. He says, "sorry."

Chris' steps falter, and "yeah" slips through his lips right before Justin darts forward. He means to press their mouths together, slick and warm, but gets the side of Chris' mouth, mostly, and lots of scratchy cheek.

There's not much Justin can do like that, so he steps back and watches a glossy black beetle make its way between their feet. He's scared to bring his head back up, because maybe Chris will be mad, and maybe Chris still won't understand, and maybe this will prove that Justin won't be able to talk _ever_ again without doing something wrong.

When it's been too long, and he kinda _has_ to, Justin decides to squint his eyes and stare half into Chris' face and half into the sun.

Chris seems okay with it.

* * *

 

 **ix. shadow**

When Justin presses a finger to his lips, he can dream standing up.

  


>  _Stiff plastic wood booth, cold against the back of Justin's legs. But a laugh, across from him. A grin that spreads so easily along Chris' lips that Justin has to taste it. And he can._
> 
>  _Chris is leaning back against the couch-like bus seats, arms spread out over the top, head resting against the wall. He smirks - but nice, like they're both in on the joke - as Justin stands, stretches, and slinks forward in that new way he just learned._
> 
>  _"This is too easy, you know?" Chris is smiling so hard that the words run together and slur._
> 
>  _It's like clockwork to slips his arms around Chris' neck and slide his body forward into a loose straddle of jean covered thighs. A rhythm that's fluid and whispers right beneath his skin._
> 
>  _Hands curve around his waist to yank Justin forward, so Chris can smile into his throat. "No, really. It's just too perfect."_
> 
>  _There's sharp thick heat that Justin can press back against, and he does - circling his hips and feeling the ache start up deep inside. He teases himself with a stuttering grind and kisses Chris firmly on the mouth, mouth opening with a sigh as Chris' hands slide down to his ass. Their tongues slip together, and Justin scratches short nails over the back of Chris' neck._
> 
>  _Shallow breaths amid laughter. "You're. it's..."_
> 
>  _Justin murmurs, "Shut up," and nips at Chris' jaw._

  


If he walks faster, it happens less often.

* * *

 

  
 **x. nothing**   


The air seems to have been clearing, thinning down the last couple of days, so they notice the glint of the man's rifle from about ten feet away and halt in the same jerky moment. The world appears to keep striding forward without them, rushing onward into the horizon, and then stretches to the breaking and snaps back. It's like watching a mirror turn to silly putty. And shatter.

They've stopped, but he hasn't. And in less than a minute Justin can make out the crude shoulder harness that he's fashioned to carry the gun. There's an erratic twitch to the man's jaw and black smudges around his eyes. Justin notes that he's favoring his left leg, and begins to calculate strategy.

It's usually only paranoia with these men, who will walk on by without a word and probably used to drive a gray Sedan to hustle a wife and kids to church on time. These men are just tired, and caught up with their _own_ dreams, and just want that white picket fence back and their cramped cubical on the fourteenth floor.

But then the heat does strange things, and there's no telling when this man's eaten last. Or what he ate. He doesn't know how bad the man will want the water he might think Justin has.

And there's a gun.

The man's continuing to march closer, staring into their faces and not faltering a single step. It's like he's looking _through_ them - like he isn't seeing them at all.

And the gun looks like a rocket launcher against the flapping shirt and skeletal curve of the man's back.

Justin feels sensation return to his feet, and thrusts them into a backpedal. He's working out a good path through the sparse trees and into the hills, when he sees that Chris hasn't moved. Chris' spine is iron rod straight, and his eyes are locked on the man's vacant stare.

Justin shuffles off the road, and hisses, "Chris..."

Chris doesn't move a muscle, doesn't seem to hear.

"Come on!" His voice rasps, and there's no movement, so he raises it up a notch. "Come on, Chris. Let's go!"

Everything's on fast forward somehow, and it seems like the man is just _shooting_ towards them. And he still doesn't seem to see. Seeing nothing. _Crazy. The man must be crazy._

"Chris. Please." Justin hears his voice crack, and thinks maybe he might cry, and he doesn't understand, but he feels it tickling the back of his throat.

He wavers, then scampers forward to yank roughly at Chris' arm. Brown eyes swing over to meet his, and then focus.

And they take off into the dirt and sand.

* * *

 

 **xi. love**

It seems like they're entering the desert, or moving towards it -- in some kind of outskirts area place. The air sizzles and the only animals that venture into view are lizards sunning themselves on flat rocks and jackrabbits bounding off to the side. Things are quiet now, hushed.

The trees are long gone.

Chris is leading again, walking straight into the sun with the same speed that he pushed for when they were on torn up street. Except they're going a different direction now, and Justin's pretty sure that should matter. He wonders, all of a sudden, why he never thought of this before. He's never asked.

"Where the fuck are we going?"

He watches Chris' back lift and fall into a casual shrug. "I dunno."

Justin licks his lips, chews the bottom one a little, and continues on.

* * *

 

 **xii. pause**

Justin stops to stare into the sun for a while.

Chris senses him not following, and stops too. He glances up into the sky, tries to share, but fidgets. It doesn't seem to do the same thing for him. Moving makes him feel real, Justin thinks, and he likes that.

Justin wants to feel heavy - **more** than real - and he believes _/hopes/_ that if he stares long enough, it will hurt.

He's impatient though, always has been, so he starts drifting into questions and answers instead. Justin thinks he'll try again, and maybe this time get it right.

Clears his throat, though he doesn't need to, and asks, "What if I said I was _glad_ that you were here?"

"That would piss me off too."

"oh." He takes in a shaky breath. It feels weird. "okay."

* * *

 

 **xiii. lost**

It's night, so they should be sprawled on sand and staring quietly up at the stars, except Chris wanders off. Justin starts to say something, but the shadows seem to close around Chris' back and he winks out. There's nothing there. The night seems to last months - as if they'd managed to wander into Alaska - and Justin picks at the bottom of his jeans and watches ants build a small hill next to his hand. He almost stands more than a dozen times; considers maybe screaming a while. But then he's pretty sure that he'd never find anything out there, like it is. And he doesn't want to know if Chris could hear him, and then not come back.

It's just after sunrise when short legs bump into his back, and then walk silently over to lean against a rock. And Justin thinks he really wants to hit Chris. Hard. He storms forward, head tilted downward, and he ends up shouting, "Can we just **fix this**?" It's not what he meant to say. And it's really loud.

Brown eyes spread wide, and then slit into a tight line of black. "What? Snap, it's done?"

"You---!" Justin uses the full capacity of his lungs - so that he's shaking with it - and expects the word to echo, reverberate. But instead it just seems swallowed by air. It turns in on itself. It's like it never happened.

" _Justin_."

He steps back from Chris' hand. He doesn't want to be touched. He feels like screaming until it matters; he thinks that eventually he has to be heard. "No, really! What's stopping us? What? It's just you. and me. and fucking nothing!" Justin's shivering at a not-good speed -- throat rippling backwards -- and the words are coming out stapled in overlapping and crooked ways, but Chris seems to be getting it, because he's rigid and rubbing his thighs with his hands. He looks, looks around, looks everywhere. Spots a stray skin and bones thing that he might once have called a dog -- it's crouched on a dune, shaking a rabbit in his jaws -- and points at it with a long determined arm. "What? Are _you_ going to stop us? What the fuck you gonna do?"

"Justin..."

Chris' voice is splintered and rubbed raw, and something that Justin's never heard before, but then he reaches out. Justin has to flinch, has to retreat, because he doesn't trust himself to keep this going under Chris' hands.

"Fuck you! You're wrong!"

Chris' fingers slip over his upper arm, and he swears, and turns, and thinks of running.

"This isn't just now! This is me!" He hears himself keel, twists and spasms, as Chris slides a hand up the back of his shirt and presses the other to his cheek.

"Shh, shh." It's not a whisper, really. It's just that his mouth is brushing Justin's cheekbone, and that must be hard to speak over. "Okay. Okay. This. This we can fix."

Chris bites the side of his face, to make his lips part, and licks the roof of Justin's mouth. Justin thinks that maybe he should be fainting, since he obviously can't breathe - lungs clenched tight as a rough palm sweeps up and down his spine - but everything's fine. He's kissing Chris, they're kissing, and then he's squirming closer in that mindless way that of course looks stupid, except you know they love you, so you don't have to worry or care.

He closes his eyes, presses them into the side of Chris' neck, and sighs, because he feels really good.

* * *

 

 **xiv. found**

There are less rocks than before and they're larger, almost boulders. The hills are higher though - mountains of sand - and Justin decides that they should pick up their feet when they walk, because he thinks it might make them faster. Chris doesn't really care, but he grins at the sharp pinch of his arm.

Justin jumps to the left and breaks into a light run, expecting Chris to catch him. They tumble to the ground.

**

One time Chris doesn't get up when Justin does.

There must be an underground well, because a circle of sand is more than damp - it's concave and filled like a tiny pond. Chris can't stop looking at it and Justin tries to wait, but he gets bored. He paces a bit, walks to the edge of sight, and walks back.

But then he thinks maybe, since Chris is actually focused, and it might - for once - be the perfect time to ask.

"What can't we fix?"

Chris looks up with a wrinkled forehead. "uh?"

"You said--"

Crouched legs stand quick, with a last glance at the pond. "Lets keep walking."

"Chris--" Justin reaches for him, but he's leaving. There's really nothing to do but follow.

He thinks of stepping right smack into the center of the water - because he's kind of pissed, even though Chris is holding his hand again. There's a faint touch of lips to the inside of his wrist, and Justin curves his step. He won't.

But he looks down. just because.

"You know," Chris says.

And Justin's staring now, like Chris was. It's beautiful to look straight down your nose into the small windblown ripples when there's no face _/no reflection/_ to distort it all.

Chris turns his head, so he can kiss Justin's mouth. Softly.

**

Justin thinks that he _does_ know, except. it's odd, because he always thought he'd be more sad.

 

  
_Though lovers be lost, love shall not;  
And death shall have no dominion._   
\- Dylan Thomas

 

end.


End file.
